


All I need to be free

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Sexual Slavery, Pseudo-History, Sequel, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-12 18:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: A sequel toWe'll die with our hands unbound.Emre is nowhere near paying his debt to Mo, which means that Loris is nowhere near his freedom. In the meanwhile, Emre's enemies haven't said their last word.





	All I need to be free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [We'll die with our hands unbound.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523560). I highly suggest you read that one first, as this isn't really a standalone fic and a lot of things won't make sense unless you read part 1.
> 
> You should know that I had no intention of writing a sequel, but then @prompt_fills and I started kind of writing a fanfic of this fanfic, and also someone asked for a sequel, and... this happened. So, basically, half of it is @prompt_fills' doing.
> 
> The setting of this fic is pseudo-historical and very loosely based on the Ottoman Empire, but don’t look for any historical accuracy, I was letting my imagination run wild, so just stating this because I don’t want to offend anyone.

When Emre comes home, Loris and Mo are in the middle of a game of _tavla_. It was Emre who introduced them to the game, and to his dismay, Loris and Mo mastered it very quickly, to the point of beating Emre more often than not. It might be due to their extensive practice, though, as Emre spends the days in his new administrative service, leaving them alone in the mansion.

“Did you have a good day?” Loris asks when Emre sits at the low table with them.

Emre pours himself some tea and sighs. “Not quite,” he says. “I spent all day working on laws concerning tangerines, their export and import…”

“When you get to cotton, don’t forget to make the laws convenient for me,” Mo says.

Emre rolls his eyes. “Oh, and I spoke to Kerem Demir,” he says as though he’s just remembered something.

“Who is that?” Loris asks, passing the bowl with sugar crystals to him. 

“He’s a…” Emre pauses, probably searching for a translation. “He works in the administrative as well,” he says when he finds none.

“And?” 

“He asked me if you could have a look at his horse,” Emre says and looks at him. “He apparently purchased one that nobody in his household can handle.”

“Sure, why not?” Loris shrugs. “Any money is useful now, isn’t it?”

Emre lowers his eyes, and Loris feels somehow guilty for bringing it up. The thousand coins are an invisible wall between them. Any mention of money brings up the loan to Mo that Emre is nowhere near paying.

Loris can’t say that Emre doesn’t have good will to pay Mo back, by all means. He spent weeks going through his father’s documents, until he found a piece of land that was gifted to his father before he started the public service. After successfully petitioning for its return, he found out the piece of land was completely worthless and nobody was willing to pay more than fifty coins for a piece of dry dirt.

The job he found himself in the city administrative doesn’t really make him much richer, either. It seems like having such position and enjoying the status connected to it must be enough for the person, and money only comes second.

While for a little tip on how to break an unmanageable horse, how to treat a sick horse or which horse to pick, people are willing to pay good money here. They’d never ask openly for advice or help, not from a slave, but the money they discreetly slip him are often more than Emre makes per month.

“You can’t buy yourself out of slavery,” Emre says after a while of uncomfortable silence. “By law it’s impossible.”

“If I’m your slave, any money I make is yours. By law, as well,” Loris smiles. “So it’s still you who is paying.”

“I… it’s not right,” Emre says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Loris shrugs. “But it seems that I have skills that are highly required in this city, while intellectuals aren’t in demand right now.”

Emre frowns, while Mo laughs heartily. When it comes to roasting Emre, he too often takes Loris’ side, much to Emre’s dismay. Sometimes, Emre points out that he’s not sure if Mo is _his_ friend after all.

“Can we go tomorrow?” Emre asks.

Loris raises his brows. “Aren’t you my master?” he asks. “Why was that a question?”

Mo discreetly wipes off a tear.

“I’ll leave you,” Emre sighs. “I can only stand a certain amount of reminders of my incompetence.”

“You’re very competent when it comes to tangerines,” Mo objects.

Emre gives him a death stare and starts towards the corridor that leads to his rooms.

“If you’re taking me out of the house, remember what you promised me,” Loris calls after him.

“What did I…” Emre starts, then trails off and looks at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m absolutely serious,” Loris smiles.

“No, you are absolutely mad,” Emre says and closes the door behind himself.

 

*

 

The following afternoon, Loris is practically bouncing on his feet, waiting for Emre’s return. He spends most of the day just wandering around the mansion aimlessly.

“Why do you look so excited?” Emre sighs when he finally appears and sees Loris leap to his feet as soon as he walks in.

“You go out of this house every day,” Loris shrugs. “I barely set a foot out.”

“Sometimes I wish I could stay inside of this house all days,” Emre sighs.

Loris just smiles. “What about your promise?”

Emre sighs again. “Loris…”

“If you don’t have a pretty collar for me, I’m not going anywhere!” Loris says and folds his arms.

“Why are you so…” Emre sighs.

Loris raises his brows.

Emre throws the collar at him instead of finishing his sentence.

It definitely is nicer than the one he wore when Emre bought him. His previous owner wouldn’t waste his money on a leather padded collar, simply because he didn’t give a damn about his slaves’ comfort. Loris doesn’t even know what happened to that terrible piece of metal, but he suspects that Emre buried it somewhere deep.

“Approved,” he says and hands the collar back to Emre. “Come on, I promise I won’t bite your hand off.”

“We really don’t have to do this,” Emre says.

“We do,” Loris says. “You have just started to get your name out, you’re _somebody_ now. You can’t be known as someone who doesn’t know how to manage their slaves.”

“Why would people think that?”

“You beat Ziya Kartal to a slave he really wanted. Tamed the said slave in two days when he said he could do it in three, and did is so well it even impressed the city auditor. And now you’d let the slave run on the loose, untrained?”

Emre folds his arms. “You do know that all this time, you’ve been talking about yourself, right?”

“Yes,” Loris nods. “I also know that the way to obtain the finance to beat Ziya was more than questionable and you didn’t really tame me, but that’s one more reason to pretend that you did.”

“I _didn’t_ really tame you?” Emre frowns. “You are practically begging me to collar you!”

“ _You_ didn’t tame me,” Loris smiles. “Emre Can, if I didn’t want to, you wouldn’t tame me in a thousand days. You’d sooner kill me.”

Emre sighs and takes the collar from him. Loris winks at him, because he sees the uneasiness in Emre’s face. Then he turns his back to him and lifts his hair, holding it out of the way. He feels Emre’s breath on the nape of his neck, and his fingers touching him lightly. He would swear they are trembling, and he can almost hear Emre’s heartbeat, too.

But when Loris doesn’t move nor say anything, Emre musters up the courage and fastens the collar. It’s definitely looser than anyone else would have done it up, but it fits quite snuggly around his neck. Loris lets go of his hair, and Emre’s fingers effectively get tangled in the strands.

“You should cut these,” Emre says, setting himself free.

Loris turns around briskly. “No.”

Emre takes a step back, more instinctively than intentionally, but then raises his hands in apology. “No, then,” he says. 

Loris still must look like a scared animal, because there’s worry written all over Emre’s face. “I didn’t know it was such a big deal for you…” he says quietly.

“It is.”

“Fine,” Emre says softly. “We shall not talk about it again.”

They don’t, but in fact, they barely talk at all while walking to Kerem Demir’s house. Loris feels kind of sorry for reacting the way he did, and Emre looks like he’s regretting even mentioning it, but neither of them dares to touch the subject again.

When they enter the mansion, a cacophony of male voices gets to their ears and Loris looks at Emre questioningly, but Emre looks equally confused. The garden is set out for a small feast, and scattered groups of men are enjoying refreshments.

Among the men, one looks very familiar, despite having his back turned to them.

“Oh, no,” Emre sighs.

One of the men spots them, and delight spreads all over his face. He pokes the familiar figure, and whatever he tells him, when Ziya Kartal turns around, his face is bright red.

Emre looks like he wonders whether to draw his _yataghan_ now or wait until later as Ziya sets out to meet them. As much as he would like to enjoy the show, Loris forces his eyes to look at the white pebbles of the garden path, and his hands that are straining to wrap around the man’s neck, behind his back.

He understands nothing of the short exchange between Emre and Ziya, but he hears the tension in Emre’s voice, and notices how Emre makes a step to the side, almost like he wants to shield Loris from Ziya.

“Why did he invite him?” Loris asks when Ziya goes back to the table because he’s apparently got hungry again while talking.

“He didn’t,” Emre sighs. “Ziya invited himself.”

As much as he knows about Ziya Kartal, it makes sense. He can tell that this is much less about the horse than it is about Emre, Ziya and mainly Loris.

“You do realize that now you _have to_ play the game, right?” Loris smirks. “And play it well.”

“I’m not going to play any games,” Emre growls and makes way towards one of the men. Loris guesses that he is Kerem Demir, the master of the house. From Emre’s wild gesticulating, he can tell that they are most likely not staying for dinner.

Kerem Demir shouts something at a servant, who promptly disappears somewhere behind the topiaries.

When Loris sees the horse, he knows straight away what the problem is, and that he might not be the solution to it.

It takes two of Kerem Demir’s servants to lead the animal out of the stables, as the horse keeps flicking its tail in annoyance and baring its teeth. Loris turns to Emre, who is still looking mightily nervous.

“Tell your friend that if he is not a skilled rider and wanted a manageable horse, he shouldn’t have bought a stallion in the first place,” he says.

“I’m not sure it is what he wants to hear,” Emre says, but turns to Kerem Demir anyway.

Loris reaches out to the horse carefully, letting it sniff his hand before carefully placing it on it’s head. “I get you, friend,” he says quietly. “None of us wants to be here. But we don’t really have a choice.”

“He says any horse can be broken,” Emre’s voice sounds behind him.

Loris closes his eyes for a moment. “Tell him a horse is not a slave,” he says. “You can’t break a horse by beating it or starving it. It won’t submit to you out of fear. In that aspect, horses are much more strong-willed than humans.”

He doesn’t know if Emre translates word-for-word, and he can’t say that he really cares, because he feels like his words will fall on deaf ears anyway.

“He asks if you know how to do it,” Emre says then.

Loris turns his head and looks at the horse’s owner. Then he nods.

“Tell him I’ll do it.”

“If you’re doing it for money…” Emre starts.

“I’m doing it for him,” Loris says and nods towards the horse.

As soon as he steps away and one of the servants tries to grab the reins, the horse snaps at him and only jumping back saves the man from a nasty bite.

Emre nods and approaches Kerem Demir again. Loris watches the servants struggling to take the horse again, and wishes he could jump on its back and take them both far away from here.

He doesn’t speak to Emre until they get home.

“Now they think you are some kind of a wizard,” Emre smirks. “Especially after the horse let you touch it, and then almost ate that servant alive.”

“Horses can sense if you are a good person or not,” Loris shrugs. “They have some sort of a sixth sense.”

“Something like you have?” Emre smiles. “I thought it looked quite similar to what you did when I was bidding for you.”

Loris doesn’t answer. He just lifts his hair and turns his back to Emre. Emre sighs and unfastens the collar, and then hands it to Loris.

“If you go to Kerem Demir’s house, you’ll need to put it on yourself anyway,” he says when he sees Loris’ surprised face.

“I’ll go there alone?” Loris asks.

“Well, I don’t really have time to supervise your work,” Emre shrugs. “I have enough tangerine laws to make.”

“Fine,” Loris says.

“Also, I’m looking forward to when your hair starts bothering you enough to admit you need to cut it.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do have…”

“No, you have _no_ idea,” Loris snaps. “You never had to sit with your hands tied and have your hair chopped off. There are things you have no idea about, and the least you can do is to admit it.”

“What on earth is going on?” Mo’s sleepy voice sounds from the door.

“Nothing!” Loris barks before Emre can even open his mouth, and storming past Mo, slams the door of his room behind him.

 

*

 

As he walks through the city towards Kerem Demir’s house, he is still angry, and he has trouble understanding the anger. Somehow, he feels like he’s not angry with Emre, and that he wasn’t supposed to take his anger out on him, but he can’t really take it out on those who have wrong him. He would gladly twist the necks of his false friends, his previous two owners, and of all the men he saw in Kerem Demir’s garden, but instead, he yelled at Emre who made a half-joking remark about his hair.

He feels like an idiot.

A high-pitched shriek interrupts his thoughts. It sounds like a woman, if not a child, but the street is empty. He follows the voice, which leads him to a low wall. He hesitates, because it’s a wall and walls are supposed to keep people out, but another high-pitched shriek convinces him that in some cases, the rules have to be broken.

He jumps over the wall and makes way through some topiaries and high grass. It looks like a garden belonging to some large mansion. The woman shrieks again.

The path Loris follows spits him out right in front of two guards that look like those that accompany slave owners to the market. A young girl with tangled hair that is sticking to her wet face looks up when the blows stop. And when she sees that the guards have turned their attention to Loris, she scrambles to her feet and scurries away like a scared hare.

That’s when he realizes that something really strange is going on in there.

Indeed.

In the middle of the garden, leaning against a hideous fountain with a statue of some fat faun, stands Ziya Kartal. He gives Loris one intense stare.

Then he snaps his fingers and turns his back to him.

The two guards move towards the house, and make it very clear that Loris should do the same. And since he’s not quite willing to die yet, he does.

There are more ugly statues in Ziya’s house, most of them fat. They are probably supposed to make Ziya feel better about his figure.

Ziya Kartal sits behind a table, like he’s a judge and Loris a criminal about to be tried for something abominable. A rather skinny slave with big eyes is standing next to the table. Ziya tells him something and then his eyes flicker back to Loris.

“My master says that you were on his property,” the slave translates. He has an accent, but seems to know Loris’ language well enough for Ziya to assign him the role of an interpreter.

He, however, doesn’t seem to be happy about it.

“And?” Loris asks, because there was without a doubt more to Ziya’s speech.

“My master says it gives him the right to keep you until your master asks for you,” the slave says. “He says it is written in this… eh… thing.”

He gestures vaguely towards a scroll lying on the table. Ziya promptly picks it up, unrolls it and shows it to Loris as though trying to prove his words. Loris just stares at it. It could as well be a kebab recipe and he wouldn’t know.

In the meanwhile, the slave continues with his translations.

“My master says you are to stay here until your master reclaims you. My master also says that all of his slaves have to wear collars and chains,” he says.

Loris’ eyes flicker to the slave for the first time. “You, what’s your name?” he asks.

The boy’s eyes get even bigger than they naturally are, which means that they are taking up about half of his face now. “Eh… Mesut,” he says.

“Mesut, tell your master that he’s a liar and if he wishes to know why, I’ll gladly explain it to him.” Mesut is probably much smarter than his master, because he seems to understand perfectly what Loris means. He’s wearing a collar, but no chains, and the slaves Ziya takes with him to the slave market don’t even wear collars. If it weren’t for their clothes and bare feet, nobody could tell.

Loris sees Ziya’s curious expression as he finally hears Loris answer to something. On the contrary, Mesut visibly pales. Ziya barks something at him, and although Loris can’t understand a thing, except for the word “master”, he can tell that Mesut is stuttering. Because Ziya doesn’t kill him on the spot, he supposes that Mesut found a way to translate his words vaguely enough.

Still, Ziya rises from his seat and goes around the table, which would perhaps look graceful if it wasn’t for his fat figure and rather short legs. Then he stops a step away from Loris, looks him up and down and says something Loris doesn’t even want to understand.

Mesut hasn’t abandoned his place, but he is still doing his duty. “My master says he thought you trained. That a trained slave would know to kneel in front of his master.”

Finally, Loris has had enough.

“In front of my master, yes,” he says, threading carefully through the language he doesn’t know quite enough to say anything too intricate, but his knowledge is sufficient to say this. “You are not my master.”

Looking at Ziya’s growing shock and displeasure, what he said was exactly what he wanted to say. Then Ziya forces his lips to smile, and it’s the sly smile Loris remembers from the slave market.

“My master says you are going to have a lot of fun together,” Mesut translates flatly.

Loris doesn’t think so. He is determined to bore Ziya to death.

He can practically see the wheels turning in the man’s face. Ziya is not bright enough to play mind games, he needs time to come up with all the rule changes.

“My master says that he will forgive you if you kneel and kiss his hand,” Mesut translates his next sentence, and Loris can hear his voice shake. Probably they are getting on thin ice.

“Tell your master that as long as I’m breathing, he can forget about it.”

Even with his poor knowledge of the language, Loris understands that Mesut tried to translate his sentence as a simple “no”. It didn’t fool Ziya, however, who probably cursed Mesut off and added a few cuffs on his head.

“My master asks if you want him to starve you,” Mesut sobs, rubbing the place where Ziya hit him twice.

Loris guesses that Mesut might be in fact a sweet boy, and knows that he didn’t choose this chore, but truth is also that he’s very much annoying him right now.

“Tell him I don’t care,” he says.

Mesut probably does, because Ziya looks upset. He snaps his fingers again, and the guards promptly stand to attention at the door, where they had been slacking.

As they walk through the mansion, Mesut leads the procession, which is kind of strange. But the guards don’t look like they mind. They are occupied with watching Loris warily, so a guide is probably welcome.

“I was trying to save you,” Mesut hisses at him, despite the guards probably having no idea of what he’s saying. “But you are so…”

“Stubborn?” Loris offers when Mesut seems not to find the right word.

“Stupid!” Mesut deadpans and opens one door.

The room is tiny and dim, far from his room in Emre’s mansion. As much as Ziya’s house is more opulent and larger, the rooms meant for servants and slaves are tinier and dirtier.

“Wait here and think about how stupid you are!” Mesus hisses again. “Talking back to my master! You either think your master will save you, which is… stupid, or you want to die, which is…”

“Stupid,” Loris says.

“Yes!” Mesut almost shrieks and closes the door.

He comes back when the light pouring in through the tiny windows is bright orange. He looks around like Ziya Kartal is supposed to jump out of the shadows at any given moment. Then he reaches under the pitiful tunic he’s wearing, and hands Loris a piece of bread with a proud smile.

It’s probably the bravest thing Mesut’s ever done.

“Thank you,” Loris says.

Mesut nods and watches him bite into the bread. “You have no manners,” he notes, somewhat disappointed.

Loris just stares at him. “What?”

“You’re supposed to break the bread, a piece of it, and eat it. Not rip it with your teeth like this, animal.”

“Have you seriously just called me animal?”

Mesut gulps, probably realizing that he’s supposed to spend the night in one room with him. “I… didn’t mean it,” he whispers.

“Fine,” Loris growls and finishes the bread _in his manner_ , just to prove a point.

It gets dark outside. Mesut lights a candle stubble which he is maybe not allowed to use, but since Ziya is unlikely to ever visit the slaves’ quarters, he would get away with it anyway. It also seems like Mesut cares a lot about his candle stubbles that look like he retrieved them from candleholders. Most likely, he’s afraid of the dark.

“It must be awful to be owned by Ziya,” Loris says as they lie down on the simple pallets.

Mesut just shrugs. “My fault.”

“Your fault?”

“I used to have a different master,” Mesut says, somewhat sadly, if Loris can judge. But truth is that Mesut looks sad all the time. “Then I ran away.”

Loris turns his head to look at him in the faint light. “He never found you?” he asks.

“He did,” Mesut sighs. “And he got rid of me. Then Ziya bought me. Maybe he will buy you, too.”

Loris gives him an incredulous look, then looks at the shadows on the dirty ceiling. “My master will take me back,” he says firmly.

“Sure,” Mesut snorts. “Masters _love_ runaway slaves.”

“I didn’t run away!”

“Even if you didn’t,” Mesut shrugs. “How do you prove it?”

Loris doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know. And if it’s a custom here to resell runaway slaves, then… maybe Emre would have no choice, if he wanted to keep his reputation.

But first, he realizes, Emre would have to find him. And Ziya’s house must be the last place where he’d look for him, simply because there is no reason for him to be here.

“You _can’t_ ,” Mesut states. “There’s no reason for you to be in another master’s house without your master’s knowledge and permission.”

“Other than the other master being a bastard and a thief?” Loris snaps.

“You walked in here willingly,” Mesut reminds him, and after a while of hesitating adds: “Even if he is… what you said he was.” 

Loris just stares at him for a while. Then he turns his back to Mesut, because he has no more arguments.

 

*

 

The following morning, Mesut disappears, but nobody comes for Loris. Either Ziya is too busy, or he’s simply letting him stew and starve. The former is much worse than the latter. When all he does is lying on the pallet, staring at the ceiling and berating himself for his own stupidity, he doesn’t even get that hungry.

Mesut still appears in the evening with a piece of bread and an apple. He looks somewhat mischievous now. Like it pleases him to do things behind his master’s back, even if it means just sneaking in food when he’s not supposed to.

Loris decides to thank him by eating according to local customs, breaking the bread like Mesut said. It also makes him eat more slowly, which, given he only has a small piece, is quite convenient. And at least Mesut looks pleased.

“Mesut, does… does your master keep… pleasure slaves?” Loris asks then. It took him a long time to muster enough courage for this.

Mesut blinks. “Yes, of course he does,” he says.

Loris must look really terrified, because a faint smile appears on Mesut’s lips. “You don’t need to fear that,” he says. “My master prefers women. Pale and pretty. You’re pale and pretty, but you’re far from a girl.”

Loris does calm down a little bit after that. But it changes nothing about the fact that a day has passed and there’s nothing suggesting that his master would reclaim him. He doesn’t know if Emre is looking for him. He imagines that he is, but doesn’t know if it’s his persuasion or just wishful thinking. After all, their last encounter didn’t end in a very friendly manner. What else would he think than that Loris _wanted_ to get away from him? And with Emre’s thinking, wouldn’t he simply let him go, then?

The sun goes down behind the tiny slits above their heads that serve for windows in the room. Loris watches Mesut pray, and Mesut watches him pray in turn, with certain curiosity, but also sitting on the floor with his back to the door, almost like he’s protecting Loris from any uninvited witnesses.

“I heard that your master paid a thousand coins for you,” Mesut says when he lights another candle stubble.

“He did.”

“There must be something special about you,” Mesut muses. “I cost Ziya Kartal a hundred. He always says he wasted it, because I’m not worth ten coins.”

“You’re worth more than a hundred,” Loris says. “If you can put a price on a person.”

There’s silence for a while, until a quiet sob sounds from Mesut’s pallet.

 

*

 

Loris loses hope on the third day.

He knows that he should probably have more faith in Emre, but then again, the city isn’t that big, and Emre knows Ziya is his enemy number one, he can’t be that dumb not to figure it out. Unless he has chosen not to figure it out.

Loris decides that even if Emre doesn’t want him, he will let nobody else have him. Not Ziya, nor anyone Emre would want to sell him to, in case he found him.

By the time he gets so desperate that he starts wondering how long it will take him to die of hunger, Mesut walks in, or rather drags his feet into the room. He looks somewhat guilty. Loris’ eyes slide down to Mesut’s hands. He’s holding a leash. Loris takes a sharp breath.

“Mesut, don’t,” he says.

Mesut looks like he’s about to cry. “It’s master’s order,” he whispers.

Loris takes a step back. “I’m warning you. Don’t.”

Mesut wouldn’t probably have the courage to fight him. Loris can’t quite imagine him jumping on him and holding him down while attaching the leash.

As if to prove that, Mesut shoots a desperate, tearful look at him. “Please,” he says. “If you don’t let me, he’ll have us flogged. _Both._ Or something worse, I don’t know.”

“What is worse than that?” Loris frowns.

“I don’t know,” Mesut shrugs. “But master surely does.”

And Mesut seems to know that whatever it may be, it would surely be awful, and it’s not like Loris wishes it on him. After all, Mesut did kind of protect him from Ziya’s wrath by his wrecked translations, and he also took the risk of his life to feed him, and he protects him as much as he can and as much as he dares. Being the cause of the boy’s death doesn’t sound like something Loris would want to live with for the rest of his life, however short it might be.

“Fine,” he says. “Come here.”

Mesut still looks like he doesn’t trust him, and probably expects Loris to strangle him as soon as Loris has him within reach. Loris sits on the pallet and then decides to sit on his own hands because he doesn’t trust his reflexes.

Mesut attaches the leash to his collar somewhat clumsily. When he looks at Loris again, there are tears glistening in his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Loris says. “It’s your master who will burn in hell, not you.”

“I don’t think he believes in hell,” Mesut smiles sadly.

The surprise on Ziya’s face when he sees Mesut walk in, holding the leash in his hand, and Loris obediently following him, is almost worth it. Mesut is definitely saved, because he exceeded Ziya’s expectations. But Loris is not willing to play by Ziya’s rules.

Ziya Kartal’s slaves are without a doubt a well-trained and docile sort, because the leash looks like it’s for decoration only. Which is why Mesut having the end wrapped twice around his wrist doesn’t make any sense. But it’s convenient now.

Loris digs his heels in and jerks his head back. The leash gives way long before he can choke himself to death. As it snaps, it cuts into his skin, but the pain is almost welcome.

Mesut is staring at him, then at the torn leash, then at Ziya. He looks horrified.

Ziya sits in an armchair that is twice the common size, so that it can accommodate him. Then says something and looks at Mesut. Mesut seems to be in shock, because Ziya has to snap his fingers and repeat his words.

“My master says that…” Mesut’s voice falters. “He says that if starving couldn’t teach you, maybe a whip will.”

Loris holds his breath. It was but a game before. Now the danger is very real.

“Master asks if you want to beg for forgiveness,” Mesut sobs, and then mouths “Please, do!” to him.

To spare Mesut more trouble, Loris simply shakes his head.

Mesut has definitively broken down. “Stop it!” he whines. “Please! I don’t want to see him kill you!”

“Shut your eyes, then,” Loris snaps.

He doesn’t even fight when Ziya’s guards grab him. He’s heard one could die from it, and some part of him that he didn’t know until now, a voice in his head that is scaring him, whispers that he hopes he does.

Then the door flies open and in pour the city guards, followed by Mohamed Salah himself.

Until now, Loris has never thought Mo could look scary nor imposing, but there’s a whole different air about him now. Ziya’s guards immediately let go of him and even jump two steps back, like they are afraid of losing their hands if Mo sees they dared to lay them on Loris.

“What are you doing here?” Ziya barks, ignoring the city guards like it’s beneath him to acknowledge them.

“You stole my friend’s slave,” Mo states. He doesn’t even raise his voice, but Ziya does look mildly unsettled already.

“I didn’t steal anything,” Ziya objects. “He walked on my property. It gave me the right to keep the slave until his master would reclaim him.”

“Well, he is reclaiming him now,” Mo says. “Whether you had the right or not, I’ll leave it to the justice.”

“Very well,” Ziya says through gritted teeth. “I hope the justice will also recognize I took care of your friend’s slave, and I deserve to be recompensed!”

Mo just raises his brows and then turns to Loris.

“Here you are,” he smiles.

Loris feels his eyes sting. Maybe it’s not the scene out of his dreams, but at least Mo didn’t give up on him, and will take him out of here. As soon as Mo comes closer to him, he falls in his arms and _hides_ there, as much as he can, given that Mo is considerably shorter than him.

Mo whispers something to him in his own language and Loris doesn’t care that he can’t understand because they are most likely some meaningless words, like those he uses on horses to calm them down. His hand is in Loris’ hair, stroking gently.

“Let’s go,” he says then. “Emre is waiting outside. I didn’t let him come in here, for… safety reasons.”

“Is he angry?” Loris asks.

“Very much,” Mo nods. “But not with you, don’t worry.”

As Mo walks him out, Mesut gives him a jealous look. Loris can’t blame him. He’s leaving the hell, while Ziya will most likely take his anger out on the nearest person, which will, of course, be Mesut.

Emre is indeed standing outside, near Ziya’s obnoxious fountain, and he is absent-mindedly kicking its marble basin. When he sees Loris, he stops vandalizing it and takes a few steps closer to him.

Loris wonders if it would be too ridiculous to kiss Emre’s feet or something.

He decides that it would.

Although him just standing there doesn’t make the situation any less awkward.

“How the hell did you end up in here?” Emre asks incredulously.

“Emre…” Mo says in a slightly admonishing tone.

“I know, I know…” Emre growls. “No yelling, no killing.”

Mo nods. “I’ll go talk to the guards,” he says then, which is just a badly concealed way to leave them alone, but maybe he indeed wants to lead a crusade against Ziya and needs to know his possibilities.

“So, how did you end up in here?” Emre asks, this time in a more controlled tone of voice.

“I was stupid,” Loris whispers. “I’m so sorry, I…”

“How?”

“He tricked me,” Loris says. “So that I would enter his gardens, and… then said he had the right to keep me.”

Emre sighs, probably realizing that he won’t get a better explanation out of him. “Let’s go.”

Loris halts. “Where?”

Emre turns to him in surprise. “Home.”

“You… are not getting rid of me?”

“What?”

For a moment, they are looking at each other like they are trying to find out which of them has lost his mind. Then Emre closes the distance between them.

“Explain,” he says.

“I thought… you would get rid of me because you’d think I ran away,” Loris says.

“Ran away,” Emre repeats. “To Ziya’s house. Loris…”

Loris gives him a sheepish look. It indeed sounds stupid now that he’s said it aloud. And Emre looks really concerned. He is looking at Loris like he’s trying to figure out what it was they drugged him with in Ziya’s house.

“What is this?” he asks then, running his fingers across the scratch on Loris’ neck, left after the damn leash.

“That’s just…” Loris starts, but Emre doesn’t seem to be listening anymore.

He turns on his heels and runs back inside the house. A few seconds later, his roar can be heard all around the city.

“ZIYA KARTAL, YOU HURT MY LO… SLAVE!”

 

*

 

The servant brings a bowl of chamomile infusion and a clean piece of cloth. The smell is strangely comforting. It smells like home, it smells like safety. It’s a simple, clean smell, so different from the heavy, intricate perfumes of Ziya Kartal’s house.

Loris wets the cloth in the bowl and lifts it to his neck, but most definitely misses the spot he’s supposed to clean with it.

“I can’t see what I’m doing,” he says.

Emre takes the cloth from him and dabs on the scratch. “How did this happen?” he asks.

Loris hesitates, because chances are that Emre will run straight back to Ziya’s house and strangle both Ziya and Mesut. “Um… it was the leash…” he starts.

Judging from Emre’s face, his worries were justified. “ _Leash_? What leash?”

“Ziya doesn’t share your opinion about me not being a dog, I suppose.”

Emre says something that is probably a curse, and finally drops the wet cloth.

“What did you want to say, back at Ziya’s house?” Loris asks.

“What do you mean?” Emre frowns.

He surely knows very well what Loris means.

“Just before you called me your slave,” Loris explains. “You wanted to say something else.”

“I didn’t-“

“You did.”

Emre bites on his lower lip. “I wanted to say… my… Loris?”

Loris folds his arms. “Really?” he asks.

“What else was I supposed to say?”

“Nothing,” Loris says. “This is nice.”

Emre blinks confusedly. “Is it?”

Loris nods. “But I wouldn’t even mind the ‘my slave’,” he says. “I… When I was in Ziya’s house, I found it surprisingly easy to call you my master. To think of you as such. It was… I don’t know. Comforting. It made me feel safe.”

Emre swallows hard. Then he reaches out and at first, Loris thinks he’ll touch his face, but Emre’s fingers brush the ends of his hair.

“I can tie it back so that it doesn’t bother you,” Loris says. “I wanted to tell you that on the day I…”

Emre shakes his head. “It doesn’t bother me,” he says. “I wanted to tell you that…”

“You really didn’t think I ran away?” Loris asks. “Not even for a moment?”

Emre lowers his eyes.

“You did,” Loris states.

“I couldn’t blame you if you did,” Emre says. “But Mo talked me out of it. You know Mo. It seemed strange to him while I was just… pitying myself.”

Loris smiles. Finally, Emre shuffles closer to him. He lifts his hand and the way he stills for a moment, waiting for Loris to flinch, reminds Loris of the way he handles horses. Then he touches his neck and lets his hand slide to Loris’ shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Loris asks.

“Um… checking if you’re not hurt?” Emre offers.

“Fine,” Loris says calmly. “Keep checking.”

“Or you could just tell me,” Emre raises his brows.

“Maybe I’m not sure.” 

Emre takes a deep breath and for the first time that day, he smiles.

 

*

 

“So Ziya looked very surprised when I reported him for theft,” Mo chuckles when he walks in. “The look on his face when my complaint was accepted was priceless.”

“He claimed he had the right,” Loris says. “He even showed me some scroll that said he did.”

“Oh, yes, the scroll,” Mo smiles.

“It was fake?” Loris blinks. All the time, he somehow supposed it was, but had no way to prove it.

“No, it was very real,” Mo says. “Only our poor Ziya didn’t realize the edict was no more valid. For some fifty years now.”

Emre spits out his tea.

“I believe you will be entitled for some financial compensation,” Mo says. “Also because he hurt the slave.”

Loris frowns. “You can’t call that scratch a…”

Mo gives him a pointed look. “Hurt. The. Slave.”

Since certain time, Loris kind of has respect before Mo, so he says no more.

“I don’t know what the court will say, but I filed for a thousand coins,” Mo says calmly.

Emre looks at him in disbelief. “What?”

“So what? You purchased him for a thousand, so Ziya stole goods worth one thousand. Plus added value because you invested time and money in his training,” Mo shrugs. “I’m a merchant, Emre. I sell things and buy things, and sometimes people try to steal from me. Trust me that I know what I’m doing.”

Loris laughs. “If it really happens… I mean… not even in my wildest dreams could I imagine that Ziya Kartal will buy me out of slavery.”

“Or rather, that Ziya Kartal will pay my debt,” Emre says.

“Oh, the strange ways of fate,” Mo smiles. “The question is, will the two of you know what to do with the freedom?”

Loris looks at Emre, and they exchange smiles. “I think we have an idea,” Loris says.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mo says. “I should finally return to my cotton fields. I’ll sleep more soundly when I know the two of you know what you are doing.”

“I just said we had an idea,” Loris objects.

“No,” Emre says and takes his hand. “We know.”

“Fine, then,” Loris says. “We know.”


End file.
